


So... Rakish, huh?

by Ewebie



Series: Tumblr Shorts [23]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Allusions to smut but no actual smut... I'm sorry but use your imaginations!, Also... Anderson is a complete tit., And we're all dying of the heat here... so let's just burn too., Because it fits... and I would laugh uproariously if something like that happened., Greg suffers so much., I know some things you can do with ice cubes and if you don't then ask yer mum., John Watson is a terrible flirt, Johnlock - Freeform, Listen... I blame Jam., M/M, Mycroft is not a baby but he is in a jealous strop, Not at all subtle allusion to Super Troopers, Sherlock is a stroppy jealous baby, There was a prompt on whatsapp because it's too hot!, Tumblr short, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 11:44:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7531492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ewebie/pseuds/Ewebie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It was way too hot for this shit. He was too fucking old for this shit and it was too bloody hot. He stripped his tie, crammed it into the pocket of his slacks, and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. “Sherlock, please.”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“Not like you to beg, Detective Inspector.”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Fucking hell.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	So... Rakish, huh?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jamlockk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamlockk/gifts).



> Here's why I blame Jam:
> 
> Jam: Can I throw in Greg having a few buttons undone and John's gaze lingers a little too long for jealous gay Sherlock?  
> Me: Um. Are you asking me to write that? Because I will.  
> Jam: Um. YES PLEASE

It was way too hot for this shit. He was too fucking old for this shit and it was too bloody hot. He stripped his tie, crammed it into the pocket of his slacks, and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. “Sherlock, please.”

“Not like you to beg, Detective Inspector.”

Fucking hell. He scowled. “Sherlock, it is thirty degrees. I lost my sense of humor an hour ago. And as much as I love the smell of baking garbage, the smell of roasting, fetid remains is completely outside of the realm of anything approximating tolerable. So please. Either explain this to me or shut the hell up.”

“Thirty-two.” Sherlock arched a brow. Greg planted his hands on his hips. Fucking hot as balls. Fucking departmental dress code. Sherlock smirked.

“Not a fan of the heat then?” John asked innocently.

Greg went for scathing with his glare. Not entirely John’s fault, but the bastard was still buttoned up to his collar and hadn’t bothered to cuff his sleeves. “Some of us aren’t masochists that spent a few years in the sodding desert.”

“Technically, sodding and desert are rather oxymoronic.”

“I will technically murder you, Sherlock,” he threatened weakly and undid another button, pulling his collar loose.

“You’d never get away with it.”

He rocked his head back to sigh up at the cloudless blue sky. He must have done something terrible in a previous life to deserve this. “Given how idiotic you seem to think the entire Met is, I probably would.”

“Crimes of passion are boring.”

Greg glared again. “Fuck off.” Sherlock smirked again. The bastard didn’t even seem to be sweating in his shirt and suit jacket. What a prick. “I hope you get sunburnt.”

“You wound me.”

“Not to be the adult here, but body, murder, heatwave, would like a cold pint.” John shrugged. “Or you two keep bickering and I’ll just go to the pub by my lonesome.”

Sherlock stuck out his lower lip. “But it’s a six, John.”

Greg crossed his arms, then quickly thought better of it and released the third button on his shirt and puffed it out a few times, trying to cool himself off just a little more. “You might be the devil,” he hissed at John and cracked his neck back and forth. “And I swear, the next person that mentions the fucking heat as a reason for this murder, I will pistol-whip them.”

“Sir, I need to move the body to do my job,” Anderson interrupted.

“The location of the body has nothing to do with your inability to do your job,” Sherlock muttered. John snorted and tried to hide it in a cough; it was not at all successful.

“HEY!”

“Sherlock!” Greg snapped then clenched his jaw and let out a slow, measured breath. “Anderson, we’ll move it to Bart’s in a moment.”

“I think,” Anderson started. 

Oh god.

“It was an altercation…”

No. Don’t.

“Brought about by a pre-existing grudge…”

Stop.

“And irrational behavior in this intense heat.”

Sherlock’s face tilted up from where he was still squatting next to the upended skip and murder victim. The smile on his face was obscene. John coughed again and gestured with his elbow. Greg dropped his head and groaned. 

“Shall I remind you, Detective Inspector?”

“No. Shut it, Sherlock.”

“What?” Anderson squawked.

“I believe you said-”

“No!” He cut Sherlock off again before he could finish reminding him. “No one is getting pistol-whipped!” He made a rude gesture at Sherlock. “And no one,” he jabbed a finger at John. “Even has a pistol here. Right? Right.”

John cleared his throat and gave him a look as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

“You are the devil,” he muttered and tugged at his shirt again. John gave him an oddly indecent look and might have winked at him. John was clearly unhinged by the heat too, but that didn’t stop Greg from flushing. “C’mon, Sherlock. Give me what you’ve got and you can follow the body to Barts’ airconned morgue. And I can go combust in my non-ventilated office.”

Sherlock stood and tucked his hands behind his back. He looked decidedly cross. “No.”

Lord have mercy. “Right. Right.” He crossed his arms. “Anderson, go get another body bag.”

“What?” Anderson startled.

“Because,” Greg ground out through clenched teeth. “I am going to need somewhere to stuff Sherlock’s body after I strangle him.”

“Alright. Enough.” John stepped between them. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock didn’t relent in attempting to stare Greg down, but John’s proximity seemed to help. However it was that it helped. In whatever weird way that worked. “Whichever neighbor shares the same creche. The trowel will be hidden in a disused, reusable, canvas shopping bag. And you are not allowed to have pints with John tonight. He is busy.” And he place a hand at the small of John’s back and none too gently propelled him towards the street.

Greg frowned. “I… What? Sherlock!”

“Oh, do your job!” Sherlock hissed, colliding with John’s back as he dug in his heels.

“I am not busy tonight!” John objected, crossing his arms and turning to square off with him.

Sherlock stared down at him. And Greg watched, rather fascinated, as they stood toe to toe and glared at each other. For all he could see, John frowned, Sherlock tilted his head just ever-so-slightly, John narrowed his eyes, Sherlock cleared his throat, John made an unusual expression, his lips quirking. Then John gave a slight nod. And Sherlock heaved a sigh.

“Sorry, mate,” John called. “I uh… Definitely have another thing… On... “

Greg shook his head. “Fine. Whatever. Get the fuck outta here before I have to give the both of you ASBOs.”

Sherlock had the cuff of John’s shirt pinched between two fingers as he strode off again. John just chuckled and scrambled to catch up before he was pulled off his feet. “Maybe tomorrow,” he called over his shoulder.

“No!” Sherlock snapped. “Still busy!”

John threw his head back and laughed, letting Sherlock drag him into the nearest taxi.

“What just happened?” Anderson asked.

Greg sighed. He shook his head. Then he glanced back at the body. “Tell me that it’s possible this man was killed with a trowel.”

~o~

Five painful, sweaty, grueling hours later, Greg dragged himself from his desk and out of the office. They’d made an arrest. They had some evidence. They might be able to make this one stick. But is was still pushing thirty degrees and fuck if the Met wasn’t some sort of oven. Even the pavement outside had retained a good deal of the day’s heat, and it was the quickest decision he’d made all day to walk home rather than take the sodding tube. It would be unbearable tonight. Walking wasn’t going to be brilliant either, given that there was whatever the opposite of a breeze was. Felt like the air was trying to smother him. Then he made the mistake of running a hand through his hair. God, he’d been sweating enough that it was damp, and his fingers left it sticking out in spiky clumps. Gross. He sighed and left his sleeves cuffed and turned for home. If he was really lucky, he’d have some beer left in the fridge.

Two blocks out. That’s as far as he made it before considering ducking into the nearest pub for a pint. And ten steps in the direction of the local, a sleek, silent, black sedan pulled up to the curb. So he stopped. And he considered the options. He glanced at the car then longingly towards the pub. There might even be a beer garden. Open air. Other people smoking…

“Gregory?”

Nope. Car it was. He sighed and pulled the door open and slid across the leather seat. It was a tribute to the fabric of his trousers that his thighs didn’t stick to the seat as much as his back did. Ugh. At least the AC was on in the car. “Mycroft,” he gave a tight nod. Well didn’t he look pristine in his three piece suit. Always immaculate. “Thought you weren’t back until Thursday.”

“There is no air conditioner in that public house.”

“Oh?”

“And the garden space would have been overcrowded due to the match.”

“Might have.”

“And you would have left stinking of cigarette smoke.”

Greg huffed out a laugh. “Probably. But I stink anyway.” Mycroft made an indistinct noise that Greg took as confirmation. “So. Back early?”

“Apparently.”

“Go well, did it?”

Mycroft arched a brow.

“That good, huh? Well. Sounds like my day too.”

“Is that so?” 

From the tone, Greg was positive that Mycroft was being dismissive. Ah well. Fucking Holmeses. In for a penny… “Your brother is a tit.”

“I would be hard pressed to disagree. Though likely for differing reasons.”

“He just up and stormed off a crime scene today. For absolutely zero reason. And threw out some horseshit answer about a play group and a sodding spade!”

“Hm,” Mycroft folded his hands in his lap. “I believe it was a creche and a trowel, but it is so fatuous to become entrenched in such small details.”

Greg felt the beginning of a smile pull at the corner of his mouth. Mycroft had that fake-disinterested air that only followed what he thought was a clever turn of phrase. “No,” Greg leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his thighs. “Let’s dig into this.”

Mycroft’s mouth twitched. “That was childish.”

Greg grinned. “Brat.”

Mycroft turned his head to the side and let out a bored sigh. He wasn’t bored. He was fidgeting, tracing one of the seams of the seat with a single finger. “I’m not the one that distracted from an investigation with a slow strip tease.”

He furrowed his brow. “Strip tease?”

Myrcroft tilted his chin to look down his nose. “Your state of undress is distracting.”

“My state of…” Greg sat up and held out his arms. Trousers - check. Shoes and socks - check. Dress shirt - sweaty but on. No tie, but sod the tie. “I’m perfectly within regulation.”

“You are obscene.”

Greg felt both eyebrows go up. “Because I… cuffed my sleeves.”

Mycroft huffed.

“The… Buttons?” He wrinkled his nose. “It was over thirty degrees, Mycroft. It was lose the buttons or pass out.”

“Sherlock was rather restrained in his behavior today.”

“Was he now?” Greg asked flatly, stretching his arms along the back of the seat. This ought to be good.

“And frankly, so was I.”

“You were?” He thought about that. “How so?”

“Because I’m rather possessive.”

“I know.”

“And I do not share.”

Greg smirked. “And?”

“And were I not well convinced that his attentions fully lay elsewhere, I might have acted rashly.”

“Wait. Whose attention?”

Mycroft glared. “You cannot possibly be that obtuse.”

“No. Hold on. That’s not fair.”

“You.” Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “Casually and deliberately disrobed for the entertainment of my brother’s partner. And you wonder why Sherlock was short with you?”

“For… Myc…” Greg snapped his mouth shut, remembering the look and the wink. “Wait. No.” He held up both hands. “That was not… I was not…”

“You did,” Mycroft said pointedly.

“I was dying. It was fucking hot out. I wasn’t stripping for John Watson!”

Mycroft sniffed and feigned interest in the passing building.

“Where are we even going?” Greg demanded.

“Mine. Problem?”

“I have beer at home.”

“I have… refreshments.”

“I could use a shower,” Greg grumbled.

“My bath is larger.”

Greg huffed. “I don’t have a change of clothes.”

“Why would you need clothing?”

He cleared his throat. “Because I’ve spent the day sweating in these. They’re kinda filthy.”

“Rakish.”

Greg blushed.

“My freezer has an automatic ice machine.”

“O-oh,” Greg squirmed in the seat.

“Yes, oh.”

“So… Rakish, huh?”

**Author's Note:**

> Do I have enough Mystrade ones that I need to make a series for it?


End file.
